00:00
by ohcptmycaptain
Summary: The detonation of a bomb ends with "00:00." At what point does the heart detonate?


_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

You're happy.

Overjoyed.

Thrilled.

She won't accept your calls but she will be here. You'll be able to see her.

 _Finally._

You watch from a short distance as the black suburban pulls up. You want to greet her warmly. You want to greet her with a kiss, but how do you? How do you beg for forgiveness when you have nothing to offer her? You're still in the same position as you always are. You're still married. She's still technically your mistress. It doesn't matter; you still want to kiss her. And you're so angry that you feel this way.

Every single time.

You're angry that you can't shake this feeling. No matter how many drinks, no matter how much she pushes you away, you cling to the precious seconds when you hear her voice. You're forgetting how her soft her hair is. You're forgetting her kiss and how her tongue slides over yours.

Worst of all, you're forgetting how she whispers your name in bypass of 'I love you.'

She stops addressing you by your name and slips back into the formal title. It catches you off guard every time.

And _it hurts._

It hurts so much that you simply hate Mellie. You never hate anyone. You never hate your enemies; you pity them and their weaknesses. Yet, you've come to hate your wife. The woman that the country believes you love and you scorn her every breath, touch, and worst of all, you cannot even think of your unborn son. She attempts to discuss names and you want little to do with it. You try and act involved, but what good does it do? In the recesses of your mind, you look at Mellie and think of Olivia. If you resigned, she could be carrying your child. The timing would be right. It wouldn't be Mellie. It would be Olivia. Every time that you look at Mellie, you see Olivia and what you truly want. And what you'll never have.

While you didn't drag her here, you know that she will hate this. For a brief moment, you smirk and imagine the fire in her eyes. The shiver that travels down your spine makes you clench your eyes shut. You're so fucked. You're furious that this is your first reaction. You want her. She's across the way, in a car, and you want her already. You hate yourself for wanting a woman that you can never have. You hate that you're putting her in this position. You want her to be happy. You want her to have children, because she will make beautiful children, but you selfishly want her to carry your child. The thoughts are conflicting and finally, you stomp across the yard and whips open the door.

It takes your whole being not to make a wiseass remark about her anger. She won't look at you. You can hear your heartbreaking. She can't even bear to look at you. And yet, you're oddly amused and turned on by her anger. You want to climb into the back seat and kiss her breathless. You cannot even remember the last time that you had sex in a car.

Then, it hits you.

With Olivia.

You cannot look at the car anymore. It's going to kill you. You clench the gun tighter and you realize the gun was a terrible idea. Why hadn't Cyrus taken it? You may actually commit suicide when all of this done? She's furious and beautiful. It's a disastrous combination because she's refusing to leave the car. You cannot climb into it. If you climb into it, you won't leave her. You'll convince them to drive and never look back. You'll make love to her until neither of you can breathe. You want to. You want to drive into the sunset but they'll find you. The press, Cyrus, Mellie, and you won't do that to Olivia. She doesn't deserve the humiliation. Instead, you demand she get out of the car.

"Get out of the car."

"No."

"Get out of the car."

"No, and I don't appreciate being summoned…"

"Get," Your voice grows more tense and shoulders rigid, "Out of the car."

"Why so you can shoot me?"

You take a step closer. Your hand press against the seat and it is well cushioned. It is softer than the guest beds in the Residence. You don't even need to step up. You're tall enough to capture her lips in a kiss and tug the door shut with your hand and never burden yourself with the struggle of hopping in. You don't need to fumble. It will be a smooth transition. It's tempting and you clutch the gun tighter. Your will is wavering. You know how easy it would be. Your eyes flicker to her lips. You yearn to touch her hair. As she sits straighter, her legs tightly pressed together, her pants are tighten at her thighs and you briefly admires her perfect form. You swallow noticeably and your resolve snaps.

Leaning into the car, you're overwhelmed with her perfume and you're ready to kiss her. You're ready to take the finally step, but the loud footsteps behind remind you that you're not alone. You'll never truly be alone. You cannot subject her to an audience. So, you allow your sexual frustration to mount into anger and you yell, "Get out of the damn car, Olivia."

She stares at you, wide-eyed, stunned, and insulted.

You never yell at her. Not like this.

She knows that you fight with Mellie. That's not a secret. You yell at Mellie, but never her. There is a common ground of respect. She's your equal and the flicker of hurt that crosses her face causes you to dash away. It's cowardly and pathetic, but you cannot bear to watch it any longer. You may do something regrettable. You may kiss her. You may press her against the Suburban and stop caring who is watching. You may explode.

 _Tick, tick, tick_.

She doesn't teeter in her four inches stilettos. She walks easily to the rock and you want to carry her. You want to lift her into your arms and place her onto the stone. You're terrified that she's going to break an ankle or some other bone. Of course, Olivia will never break anything. She's too independent and strong. She doesn't need you. She never needs anyone but herself. You want her to need you. You want her to teeter just a little so you have an excuse to touch her. She is flawless. She's a goddess and you watch her effortless steps.

Briefly, you close your eyes and reminisce her walk into the bedroom. She was the epitome of beauty: dusk skin, white lace lingerie and red pumps. You forget how she tastes and smells. You can never forget the image of Olivia's gray stiletto flying and breaking a three hundred year old lamp when your tongue slides into her sex. It is burned into your mind. When you cannot sleep, you lie in bed and attempt to remember how she tastes, feels, and clenches around you. It is torture but you know that it's all you deserve. You feel her glare across the way. The gun lays abandoned behind her and you wish that you hadn't put it down after your exchange in the car. You wish it was by your side now, because suicide seems like the perfect option.

She's all and nothing like you, and you love her for it. Right now, you can feel her impatience growing. You take the shoes from Hal and cross to her.

When you reach for her ankle, your heart stops.

Gray stiletto.

 _Fuck._

The day just became a lot harder. Literally.

"Tom and Hal could had told me where they were taking me. I could had dressed accordingly."

Your mind immediately jumps to the last time you've seen the shoes. The white lingerie cannot leave your mind. Your eyes trace briefly over her form and you're sure that she hasn't noticed. You can only wonder, is she wearing white beneath her perfectly pressed clothes? The immaculate condition of her pants and blouse drives you insane. You catch the peak of cream beneath her coat. You're going mad. You want to know and you're almost tempted to ask. She doesn't seem to remember the last time. You cannot forget. Your eyes jump to the shoes.

Again and again.

You have to get them away. She opens her mouth to speak and you want her to shut up. If she talks, your mind cannot shut off the evening. She whispered the dirtiest things that evening and had called you, "Mr. President" in a way that only she knew how. While you normally hated her formal address, it was different that time. You felt powerful. You felt strong. You felt weak that she could reduce you to an orgasm just by a few quick strokes and murmurs. You knew that you were hers. The possession was a powerful thing and if she kept talking, she would have to excuse your behavior because you couldn't be held responsible.

"Shut up," You snap because you're trying your best to keep some will alive.

You shove the boots onto her feet, because it's the most aggression that you're allowing yourself. You're craving so much more. You realize that you're on your knees. She must notice this too, because she seems wildly uncomfortable. You want to laugh at this odd turn of events. You haven't been on your knees in front of Olivia in… awhile. There's something oddly sexual about this exchange. You never get down on your knees. You bend over to pick anything up. Mellie never even let you tie your children's shoes. She said, it was beneath you and you had nannies to teach them that. The only woman that you ever took this position for was Olivia. The only weakness that you've ever shown was to her. She's only ever held this wielding power of you.

Her boots are laced and finished. You slam her foot on the ground and quickly dash forward. You grasp the gun and toss to catch it. You impress yourself. You can hardly shoot. It must be her presence that allows your testosterone to kick into overdrive. You are not ungrateful. You cannot hear her footsteps and briefly glance back to her. She stubbornly sits on the rock.

"Where are we going?"

The thousand comments that linger on your tongue are quickly silenced.

"We are hunting."

She chases after you and for a moment, you take two smaller steps. She can hold her own but you cannot stop the chivalry or need to protect her. If she slips, you want to turn around and catch her. Olivia Pope may be angry with you, but you're angrier with yourself.

"Do I get a gun?"

You quietly snort at the insinuation. Theoretically, you don't object to the idea. She probably has a better shot than you do. She could shoot you and spare you both the trouble. You trust her. You trust her more than you trust yourself. You want to hand over your shotgun and say, 'do your worst.' What is life if you aren't living it with her? You've contemplated this more frequently lately. She stopped taking your calls. You wonder, has she forgotten about you? When Cyrus hands over the photos of her and Senator Davis, your heart shattered. You want to let her go. You want her to be happy but it means sacrificing your own happiness. You want to be a selfless man, but you're still just a man. You're still human who wants nothing more than love. You insist that you gave her the chance and she turned you away. It isn't your fault that you're in this masochistic relationship. If you can even call it a relationship, but deep down you know that's not true. If you had resigned, you would never resent her but you know, it would be a constant worry of hers. That wouldn't be any life.

"I'm not giving you a gun."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"Life isn't fair," You rage.

The truth in your words holds so many depths that it momentarily stuns you. You can hear her momentarily catch her breath. You know that you haven't any right to make such an assessment. Their lives are not fair because you pursued her. While she could had said 'no,' you should had never looked. You should had been stronger. And you weren't. It may had been a momentarily lapse of weakness but it blossomed into a love that he only dared dream of. When you looked at her, you only dared wonder of what a life could be like with love. The fleeting moments that you were offered with her were so sweet that you couldn't possibly believe that life could be like this everyday. After all, heaven wasn't on Earth.

"What is your problem?"

"What is my—" You stop.

You look at her.

You realize that you don't have any problems.

Not with her.

Never with her.

You look at her and realize: you're the problem. It's your fault. It's always going to be your problem. You made this mess and you need to fix it. You can't fix it. If you fix it, you're giving her up forever. You're allowing her to move on without you. You're a selfish bastard and you know it. She knows it. You like to think that she's selfish too. She 'gave' you back to Mellie and here she is. Cyrus brought here, but she knows that he wouldn't drag her from the car. He can yell and demand, but she never had to truly step out of it. Is she just as selfish as he is?

You turn away from her.

"I don't have a problem."

"Then, why are secret service agents physically removing me from my home at 5am?"

Your eyes search through the bushes. Physically? There would be a debriefing this evening. No one touches Olivia. No one. If they couldn't persuade her to come, she never had to come. You are furious that Cyrus had the nerve to demand someone else touch her. Olivia was his. The possession that runs through your veins jolts your body. Your heart hammers in your chest. You glare at Hal and Tom through the trees. While they may be loyal, they're testing your patience. Nevertheless, you lie. If she knew that this was Cyrus' doing, you would hear a different earful from her. Right now, you cannot hear about the power that Cyrus yields over your administration. Everyone holds more power than you do. You are fully aware of that fact. You aren't comfortable in your position. You are only comfortable, strong, and fluid when she's by your side. You would be the greatest president when she's the First Lady. When she's your partner. Until then, the country must make do with whatever you can offer.

"Because they do what I say."

"I don't do what you say."

For a few moments, you feel married.

Finally, you are allowed to look at her. She is looking at you. While you are both furious, you are talking. You are discussing a matter. Back and forth, back and forth. You feel married. The ring that glistens on her right hand drives you crazy. You want to ask, 'who gave it to you,' but you never got around to it. She battles your every word. You fight her back. She mentions 'Thorngate' and you cannot really bring yourself to care. She is bound to find out all his secrets. For a little while, you are allowed to believe that she's your wife scolding you. Her voice loses pitch and gains it again. You're terse and desperate to kiss her. You want to make up. You want to jump to the part where you kiss and makeup. That's what married couples do. You can argue but in the end, you always are in it – 'for better' or 'for worse.'

Fleetingly, you think how it applies to you and Mellie. You realize that you never thought of it as married. You always brushed it away as an arrangement between agreeing parties. Recently, you would like to nullify the arrangement but she's not budging. It is frustrating and maddening.

"They know about the late night phone calls. They know those phone calls came from the White House."

You are stunned. Thorngate is not supposed to spy on the President. Has the NSA lost their fucking minds? You cannot breathe. You swallow and choke on the idea that they are listening to you private moments with Olivia. They were never more than laughs and the occasional discussions of her clients. They only put her in jeopardy. You cannot believe that Cyrus stoops this level. They don't give you enough credit. You know that Cyrus' is most disapproving in your relationship. After all, Olivia is his golden child. He doesn't want the political nun corrupted by the Republican president. You know that Cyrus dreams big for Olivia. You know, they never give you enough credit. Keep your friends close and enemies closer. You wish that more friends surrounded you. The staggering number of enemies is beginning to make your head spin.

You launch at her with all the information that you have. At least, you use the information that they will give you. The 'lack of intel' that they pretend to have and affront you with. You want her to understand this this isn't easy for you either. You want to call them out on their bullshit, but how? How are you supposed to do every step and not endanger her? You know that she cannot possibly understand that. Not when she's angry like this. You are constantly assaulted with the thick stack of photos of her and Senator Davis. There is more intelligence on their interactions than on the Thorngate leak. You cannot help but think of it. You don't want to use it as a weapon but it slips out. It pushes past your lips like fire. It burns and consumes, because it has been eating at you since Cyrus opened the files. You wanted to call and ask, 'are we over, have you moved on, does he make you happy?' You couldn't. You knew that it wasn't your place. Not to mention, she doesn't accept your calls anyway. Most days, you were tempted to just leave a voicemail. After two or three scotches, it seemed worth the risk.

"…And you're using old boyfriends to dig up secrets on the intelligence committee."

"I am not—"

"Senator Davis was your boyfriend from 2002-2006. You lived together in Georgetown and New York. You had an engagement ring and you were seen with him yesterday looking fairly cozy from what I hear."

You cannot imagine her with another man, especially not after holding her in arms so many times. You can only clutch the pillow so tightly and think of her there. You can roll away from Mellie one thousand times and imagine her next to you. Mellie breathes differently. Her breaths are louder and deeper. Olivia breaths so quietly that you barely know that she's there. Thus, you always lay with your chest against her back to know her presence. You grow mad wondering, did Senator David sleep like that too? Was he worried about her feet getting too cold and allowed her cold feet to snuggle close? You allowed her to run her fingers through your sparse chest hair. Mellie insisted that you shave it. When you arrived freshly waxed, Olivia had been disappointed and insisted, 'It's a part of you that no one else is privileged to." You never did it again. Ironically, you were worried about their sex life more than was healthy. Was he better? It was a sick twist of fate that the POTUS was worried about another man's performance. Still, you never wanted another man to please Olivia. You wanted to the only man who could make her scream. The only man that could make her shatter and beg for release or more.

"You two screwing again," You sneer.

You hate yourself for asking the question. You don't want to know the answer. You cannot know the answer. If she replies, your wedding bed is likely to be your deathbed. You want to clench your eyes shut and run away. Coward. In your wildest daydreams, you never expected to ask such a hurtful and despicable question. Yet, she doesn't answer and stares blankly at you. You don't know if that's what you wanted to hear. You don't know if that's worse or better. She won't speak to you and you're attempting to read her wild emotions. Her eyes keep flickering to you and everywhere else. You swallow bitterly and tremble, she is. She's screwing Senator Davis. Your stomach lurches and you may vomit on your shoots. Thank god, they are waterproof.

"Is he everything you ever dreamed of?"

You cannot stop. You are wild. She is fucking someone else. She won't touch you. She will hardly look at you. She won't accept your phone calls. You don't know what she wants. You do. You do know what she wants. You are determined. You shake your head in disbelief. She told you to stay. She 'gave' you back to Mellie and moves on with Senator fucking Davis. You stomp away and the gun swings in your hand. You want to shoot something. You are damned sure that the aim would be perfect right about now. You're mad. No, not angry but crazy. Insane. Criminally insane. It would be illegal to shoot Senator Davis, but the president can give pardons. You can pardon yourself. You will Google that before doing something rash. You are shuddering in fury. She 'gave' you back. She made the decision for you. For once, you are sure that it wasn't your mistake that caused this. You may be somewhat delusional. You may have crossed lines, but you know that this is the end. You swallow and feel your stomach heave again. Your lungs burn as you swallow the broken sob. You won't give any of them the satisfaction.

Then, her voice breaks through your deluded thoughts.

"Stop walking."

Fuck that.

"Stop..."

Her voice grows in volume. You never heard her so grave. A thick contempt lies in her voice and you take a step forward. Every step that you make, you know that it's farther away from her and any chance of reconciliation. What reconciliation could you possibly have now? Finally, she shouts and you cannot move. Your feet are rooted to the ground. The power that she holds over you is unbelievable. For a moment, you hear her voice waver in the command. Your heart leaps in the worst way. It shatters that you reduce her to this.

"…Walking."

Finally, you turn and face your maker, because she has created you. She has made you a decent human being, better man, and great President. She has given you life and a soul. She gives you breath and steals it from you. When you notice the quivering lips and short gasps, she steals it from you again. You have hurt her. You have hurt beyond any shadow of a doubt. You were foolish with her emotions. Presumptuous and foolhardy to believe photographs and delusions that your mind presented. The sudden leap of her chest and noticeable gulp clenches your heart painfully.

You hurt her.

You hurt her and despite doing so, you never seek out to hurt her. They say: you hurt the ones you love most, because they are easiest to forgive you. You do not believe this to be true. You cannot imagine Olivia ever forgiving you for this foolishness. You meet her gaze steadily. You want to say everything and nothing. You want to beg for forgiveness. You want to promise to love her forever, because you do love her. You love her like sickness and its cure. You tremble when you see her even if its in a distance. You cannot possibly live without her and when she doesn't accept your phone calls, you wonder how has everyone ever lived an eternity without love? You are grateful that she yells at you. Then, she is acknowledging that you exist. When there are long stretches of silence, you cannot breathe. The silence is worst and she can scream anything, you will be happy. At least, she is talking to you. At least, she hasn't forgotten.

 _Tick, tick, tick, tick._

You toss the gun.

And four strides, your lips meet hers.

Your hands cup her face and fingers immediately thread into her hair. You need to consume and grasp every bit of her. You want to remember this very moment and draw every slope, hill, and valley into his mind. She may push you away any moment and you cannot forget. You cannot forget how silky her curls are. When you grasp her hair, she mews quietly and it spurs you further. You cannot forget that she's furious with you and takes it out on your lips. Her teeth sink into your lip – hard and passionate. There may be blood but neither of you care. She doesn't refuse you. She hates the insinuation. You hate that you even asked. Nonetheless, you need it. She needs it. As your tongues duel, both of you are winning, her small hands clasp your back and tug you closer into her body.

You are all moans and gasps.

She moans and gasps.

You aren't a particularly religious man, but she makes you one. You believe in God, Allah, Yahweh, Buddah, and all one thousand Hindu gods/goddesses. She makes you believe in Tinkerbell, faire dust, and all that bullshit. She makes you believe that happy-endings are possible and watching Disney with Karent isn't all for naught.

As you back her against the tree, your kisses grow more fervent. Your lips skim over her neck. Your teeth drag over her beautiful skin. You have never tasted skin so sweet and her pulse drums beneath your lips. Your teeth skim across her neck. Occasionally, you bite her and watch as rose blossoms on her skin. You both know why you're leaving marks. She doesn't object. You possess her as much as she possesses you. Her arms just tighten around your neck, her head resting against the tree and allow you to kiss her. She thrusts her pelvis against your thigh and grinding her sex against you. You shudder at the insinuation. Suddenly, she tilts her head and kisses your jaw. Her teeth briefly nip at your throbbing pulse. You choke. You will need a turtleneck or scarf for the next few days. She never apologizes.

You feel her leg drawing up your calve. You groan against her lips and she moans breathlessly. You desperately want to pick her up and thrust home. Smugly, you always wonder how she manages to walk after these trysts. While you're fully aware that you're not a porn star, Olivia always spurn you on for 'more,' 'harder,' and 'deeper.' At first, you were afraid to hurt her. When she dug her heels into your back, you knew better than to question the great Olivia Pope. Fuck you, if she wasn't marvelous. Your hands capture her breasts and you audibly moan. Somewhere along the line, you forget your audience. Your thumb tweaks her peaked nipple and she thrusts faster against your thigh. You tilt your hips and press your hard length against her core. You feel her body buckle against yours.

She thrusts expectantly against you.

That's all the permission you need.

And then Hal or Tom, you aren't sure, shifts and steps on a branch.

The crack stirs her into reality and she's pushing you away. She's walking away.

You want to scream. No. You want to shoot them. You aren't a violent man, but fuck them. You cannot dream. You cannot breathe. You cannot eat. You cannot…

Cannot…

Cannot…

Cannot live without Olivia Pope.

You gulp noticeably, but it goes nowhere. The stone lodged in your throat holds its place. Your enemies surround you. You need not meet her gaze to see the unshed tears. She is far more humiliated than you. You knew that they would betray you – eventually. You simply hadn't expected it now. They had families. You thought that they would give you sometime to be with yours. A family that you can possibly be yourself with and the one person who doesn't cripple your every move. You love your children. You will die for your children. Yet, you cannot help but want Olivia to be their mother. Your hair is mussed from her fingers. You can still feel her touch everywhere. You can taste her tongue. You can taste her strawberry gloss on your lips. You can hear gasp vibrating in your eyes. Her perfume still lingers on your clothes. Her skin still tingles beneath your fingers. You swear that she's a phantom in your arms.

You swallow again.

"I am not yours."

And your hear nothing else.

You need not hear anything else.

You can't.

The deafening sound of your shattering heart silences anything more she can say.

 _00.00_

_

I posted this years ago in 2012, but I wanted to move this over to my new account. I really enjoyed writing this story when I posted it and admittedly, it's still one of my favorites to re-read now. I loved this scene!

As always, I would love to hear your feedback. You can also find me on becauseyoure-mine(period)tvmblr(period)com where I post previews, one-shots, short fics, my image edits, et. al

xx A


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